The Angels Envied Every Kiss
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: In which Tom Riddle feels more than ready for his seventh year. Until, that is, he encounters the war refugee with an English accent and too bright green eyes; one Hariel Lillian Potter. FemHarry
1. Prologue

**The Angels Envied Every Kiss**

 **Prologue**

x

Curled up neatly under the Slytherin green sheets, Hariel Lillian Potter stared up at the wooden top of the four poster bed, intimately aware of the body lying next to her, of her Gryffindor tie lying forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Riddle's torso was rising in a slow, steady motion that implied he was completely at ease.

But Harry knew otherwise, knew this dorm, if not the entire Slytherin common room, was warded to the high hills. She wouldn't be able to so much as say something in here without it twining on Riddle's radar.

Not that she cared.

At eighteen years old, Harry had gotten into Hogwarts Seventh year by the skin of her teeth. A war refugee.

Or so she'd told them.

Grindelwald was currently riding high on his power trip after all, not suspicious at all. No doubt he was hunting down the one who had dared to steal 'his' wand.

Looking down at the wrist holster that never left her forearm, charmed to be invisible and incorporeal to all but her, Harry focused on the tip of the Elder Wand, peeking out from the edge of the leather holding.

She felt no guilt, taking it from the Dark Lord as she had, summoning her possession from the Hungarian born Wizard's grasp.

She had a greater need for it after all.

She alone knew what was coming, what the muggles were planning, had always been planning.

Only this time, things were going to go a little differently.

.

Even if she had to work with Tom Riddle to do it.

* * *

 **So, I can't remember writing half of this; it was done about midnight and I ummed and ahhed about putting it up on Fanfiction this morning, but hey ho. Here we go.**

 **This'll probably be the fic I write with sex in, though I won't be writing the full scenes out here -if you want that, I'll be posting the unedited version on AO3, becuase of Fanfic rules (ie, I don't wanna be kicked off here)**

 **for anyone interested, the description I have of Harry and Tom's future relationship on here (because this is just a prologue) is here;** It's not a romantic relationship in a sense, but it is passionate and jealously and lust and a fine line between hate and love.

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


	2. Once

**The Angels Envied Every Kiss**

 **Chapter 1  
** _Once_

x

Marked as Equal, a prophecy has once promised.

The same in status and quality, a little girl accepted.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle rarely found himself flatfooted. He was incredibly observant, perceptive and most importantly of all, smart enough to make use of the first two qualities. It was what had gotten him to where he was now, sat neatly at the top of the Slytherin- of the Hogwarts food chain. The teachers adored him, the students not in the know looked up to him, and the ones who had an inkling of what was to come watched him go with fearful awe in their eyes.

His mind caught everything of interest, everything that seemed to have even the slightest significance. Anything that he could charm to play to his tune, dance to his whims and further his own plans. It was all one big chessboard, and currently, his opponent was Dumbledore.

The only one on the staff that didn't believe him, that saw through every mask he presented. But he couldn't see through the moves.

Oh, he could sit there, puzzling over why Tom had done this, could recognise it was a smokescreen that was being put before him. But just because he could see the smokescreen, didn't mean the Deputy Headmaster could see through it.

Tom's lips tilted upwards ever so slightly, straightening the Head Boy badge that sat, neatly pinned to his perfectly pressed robes as he situated himself at the topmost part of the Slytherin house table. Lestrange and Avery flanked him, with Nott sat across from the three of them.

Already Tom could note both Malfoy and Black, the heirs to both families, looking nervously over at them. He'd taught them well last year, when they'd dared to try voice up about his blood. No doubt they still had nightmares about snakes, about the fangs piercing their flesh for the slurs they'd thrown at the Heir of Slytherin. They'd not spoken again, instead seemingly convinced that he was under the name Riddle to keep suspicion off of his back.

If only.

They were weak, they all were. As soon as someone with a mediocre of strength came along they bowed their heads -as they rightfully should- and all but kissed the hem of his robes.

Running a finger over the cool black stone that sat atop his ring, Tom forced his attention to the approaching First Years, removing it from his Horcrux. His second Horcrux, made from the death of his filthy muggle father. The sneer didn't show on his face, but he didn't need it to. He knew exactly how accomplished he'd felt, dealing that worthless worm his rightful demise.

Drumming one's fingers against the tabletop was an impolite show of blatant impatience, but Avery didn't seem to care. The brunette, who's hair almost turned golden in the torch light, frowned, grey eyes scanning the crowd of new students. Tom didn't care for the first years.

The other Slytherins had learned quickly, teach the younger children to respect their betters, or they would all be punished.

No, Tom didn't care about impressionable, easily moulded eleven year olds.

His focus was on the war refugees, the beaten, broken forms of children who'd been forced to flee their homes in order to continue surviving. So was the way of Grindelwald. Five broken children, all with their shoulders slumped, all with hesitant steps and cagey eyes. They would pose no problem to his reign of Hogwarts, those five would cause him no issues.

The sixth, he'd have to keep an eye on.

The girl stood tall, the curve of her shoulders straightened out and spine undefeated. Looking taunt, stressed.

But Tom could see beneath that, could see the supple curve beneath the sleeve of her forearm, indicating a wand holster. He could see her steps were carefully measured, that her positioning in the crowd was just so she'd be able to cover her back no matter which way a spell came from.

Paranoid.

A Survivor.

He'd have to keep an eye on her for sure. Shouldn't be too hard, the red hair was a blindingly obvious indicator. Not the ginger that all Weasleys had, but a brilliant fiery red. Unique, no other in Hogwarts currently had hair like that.

With the girl's back to him he couldn't quite see her face yet, but that problem would be solved when she went up to get sorted. She was the one to keep an eye on, that much was for sure.

Leaning back slightly on the bench, Tom turned his attention to the teachers, eyes scanning their postures, to see if they recognised any of the new students. Dumbledore would obviously already know all the muggleborns, being their inductor into the Magical World. A moment that should have been special for Tom, ruined by the old man's presence.

It was Merrythought that dealt with the refugees, seeing as she was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. She'd know what to look for in curse damage, if any of the students were under Imperio, and other such problems.

Her eyes were soft as they flicked over what Tom considered to be the broken five. But they sharpened something fierce when she spotted the Survivor, the fighter.

For the first time, he couldn't quite read what was in Merrythought's eyes, not without slipping into her mind through Legilimency. Not something he cared to try risking; he was almost completely sure that Merrythought has some training, at the very least, in Occlumency. And he had a reputation to keep up, not one that he could throw away to see what had the DADA professor so, cautious around the Survivor.

He would find out though, that was a given. And he had a year to do it.

.

Dumbledore went down the list of students, the influx of first years occasionally broken by a Janvier, Abel or Pascal, Esther. And then, finally, he got to the name of the one person Tom was paying attention to.

"Potter, Hariel."

The name, or at least, the surname, was British. That much Tom new for certain. It was a pureblood family, there'd been a Seventh Year Potter in Gryffindor during his first year. A branch family that'd been living elsewhere then?

Avery, Lestrange and Nott had all perked up at the subtle show of his interest, watching as the redhead made her way up to the stool.

She spun around, and Tom was a little disappointed to find she wasn't the striking beauty her hair implied. Her face was reasonably plain but her colouring was not.

Doe-like, bright green eyes. The killing curse. Two little gems of the darkest magic known to made, sat neatly upon her face and framed by a mask of freckles. She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't the kind of beauty that would catch the eye. Instead, it would be her colouring that made her memorable.

That and the fact the hat began to shout out a house before suddenly freezing atop her head.

"Slyth-" it'd called, but stopped.

Even Dumbledore seemed a little stunned, and Tom felt his gaze sharpen. There was something wrong with that girl. It was blatantly clear now. The hat had never stopped halfway through its sorting, nor had it looked quite so, pensive, as it did now.

The girl, new to Hogwarts sorting as she was, seemed to not realize something was wrong. The hat had never cut itself off before. Never. It'd always known the best place to put someone, to send them off to their house without hesitation.

Looking at Lestrange from the corner of his eye, Tom was treated to a look of curious shock. So, it seemed that the hat had never, ever done this before, even in the times before Tom had attended Hogwarts. Lestrange would know otherwise.

Fingertip dancing over the dark stone upon Marvolo's ring, Tom turned his attention back to Potter, only to find she was looking right at him. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, just as the same time the hat made its decision.

In a voice that was surprisingly devoured of all its usual excitement, the hat spoke the word 'Gryffindor', still looking contemplative as it was removed from Potter's head.

That was a jump, from almost an instant Slytherin to Gryffindor? The table of the lions seemed just as unsure how to react, clapping hesitantly and looking around, as if waiting for someone to explain to them what had happened. Trust the lions to look for the answers, instead of trying to puzzle them out.

Still though, there had been something unreadable in the girl's eyes when they'd met his own. She wasn't a Legilimens, that much he knew. He hadn't even felt a tap against his Occlumency barrier.

Had she recognised something in his face? He wasn't one for underestimating an unknown, not when he was so close to victory here in Hogwarts.

It was a simple game. Dumbledore won if he exposed Tom for what he really was, and Tom won by keeping to the shadows and allowing his empire to slowly expand around him. He could not afford any mistakes now that they were coming up to the final act.

Which meant he had to figure Potter out, because the girl wasn't meeting his eyes again. Not for the reasons many other females failed to do so; there was no nervous fluttering of eyelashes here, no embarrassed blush. No quick, not-so-sneaky glances.

Potter just didn't meet his gaze again, not even acknowledging the weight of his stare.

"Tom?"

He had them call him Tom when they were in the company of others. In the Slytherin Common Room, where secrecy wards were spelled in to react to the Heir's desire, there he was their Lord.

"Keep an eye on Potter Lestrange." He didn't ask, that was an order.

Lestrange had volunteered -after a slight suggestion from Tom- to be part of the welcoming committee for any war refugees. Even if he did agree with Grindelwald that the muggles should be wiped from existence. In reality, Tom just wanted someone to keep an eye on the new students and make sure they wouldn't get in his way.

Lestrange understood that, which was why at the end of fifth year he'd signed up for the welcoming committee. He had eyes and ears everywhere, and he'd work out how to bend Potter to his will. The war might not of broken her, but clearly it'd not been trying hard enough.

If she proved a problem, Tom would fix it.

There could be no threats to the end game here.

* * *

"Riddle's still watching you."

It took Harry a moment to register what was being spoken to her as she wrapped her lips around the metal fork, the piece of lasagne tasting heavenly against her tongue. How long had it been since she'd had lasagne? Too long, far too long. A nice change from the pub food she'd spent the past two weeks eating.

It was only at the last moment that she remembered she wasn't suppose to know who Riddle even was.

"Who?"

The girl, Vivian Veridian, a descendant of a past Hogwarts Headmaster she'd proclaimed, let out a low snort.

"He's Head Boy and Hogwarts' number one eligible bachelor among the student population; don't want to write off Professor Ackerley though." Harry could understand why; the flaxen haired man sat two seats down from Professor Dumbledore was indeed quite pleasant to look at, she doubted he was any older than twenty five. Students taking NEWT Astronomy had probably skyrocketed with him now leading the course.

But Harry wasn't here to form stupid crushes.

"I guess there's no point in me bothering with him then if everyone else is clambering after him?"

This was the perfect opening, the way she'd slip in that she wasn't interested in Tom Riddle. Harry had bigger things to deal with on her plate than the fledgling Dark Lord.

"Well, good news for my chances then," Vivian cackled, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder before returning to her roast dinner. carefully slicing off another square of pasta,

Harry turned her attention to greeting the other few Seventh years sat around her. Vivian had been the only one to wave her over after her strange sorting, so she was the one Harry would stick with for now.

' _Salazar was the only one who wanted to burn the Muggles without a chance. The others agreed to leave the muggles in peace, until they made the first act of war that was. You'll find yourself carrying their blessing, Hariel Potter._ ' The words echoed around in Harry's head as she looked down at her plate, pushing the half eaten garlic bread around, all appetite leaving her.

She had plans to be making. One year, that was all she could afford herself before she needed to get to work.

One year in order to get it all together.

Clenching her fingers around the fork before dropping it, Harry forcibly turned her attention to Dippet when the Headmaster stood up. Harry caught the brief gist of the speech, welcoming them to Hogwarts, hoping they'd have a good time here, that they'd learn a lot. And would the Transfer Students remain behind so that the welcoming committee could go over a few things.

Transfer students.

That was a nice way of putting it, much better than war-torn orphans and refugees, which they actually were. Even Harry. Just, she was from a different war.

One they'd lost.

"It's okay, Alasdair Knightley is on the Committee, they have someone from every house in them. I'm sure he'll be happy to walk up to the tower Hariel." Vivian winked, a grin blooming across her face and Harry rolled her eyes. She wasn't Ron or Hermione, but she'd make an alright acquaintance.

"It's just Harry."

The dark haired teen grinned, shooting to her feet and dashing off with the rest of Gryffindor to wait, leaving Harry in the presence of her fellow refugees. She was the eldest among them, at the age of eighteen. Not that any of the group had asked how old she was, only the small third year, Esther Pascal who'd also been sorted into Gryffindor, has asked if she was okay.

Compared to the lot of them, who'd probably seen their families cut down before them very recently, Harry was perfectly fine. She'd gotten used to see all those she cared about killed.

It didn't stop the pain, but it did make her better at hiding it now.

"Greetings, my name is Orlan Lestrange and I am head of the Hogwarts Welcoming Committee."

Lestrange Sr. wasn't that different from his children. The same dark curly hair, the same mulberry coloured eyes, the same pale skin. He was slighter than his eldest would be, but it was a lithe kind of slight that made him seem just as dangerous, even taking into account his youthful visage.

Harry adjusted her stance slightly, eyes taking in the five others that stood with Lestrange. One more male, four females. All of which looked relatively harmless.

Lestrange was the only Slytherin.

"We'll be giving you a quick tour of the major points of the castle, so please follow after me."

* * *

"Thoughts?"

Lestrange was frowning. Clearly he'd started to realize already just how much about Potter didn't add up.

The second that the Welcoming Feast was over, Tom had already made use of his privileges as Head Boy to go and check out the Wizarding Genealogy book within the library. He'd traced the Potter tree all the way back to Ignotus Peverell -and wasn't that interesting? The brother of his own ancestor- but found no branch families that could possibly have led to Hariel Potter. A bastard branch then? It was the only explanation otherwise.

"She avoided me. I managed to talk to every other refugee," here Lestrange grimaced and it wasn't hard to tell he'd very much disliked the little chats he'd had, "but Potter was always on the other side of the group, no matter how I moved around. She tried to make it look like she wasn't doing it, but her wand arm was always between the two of us. Paranoid I'd say."

Nodding, Tom twisted his wand about between his fingers, neatly trimmed nails scraping slowly against the white wood.

So Potter didn't like Lestrange then? Already taken in by the Gryffindor v Slytherin ideals? No, she hadn't been present long enough to accept that mentality. It was something else.

But what?

"Did you get a copy of her schedule Lestrange?"

"Yes my Lord."

The paper was presented before him and Tom plucked it from his fellow Slytherin's hands. Defence, Potions, Transfigurations, Charms and Care of Magical Creatures? A rather boring combination. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if she'd taken Muggle Studies.

"Do you believe my interest warrant Lestrange?"

"Maybe my Lord, I believe time will tell if she's worth casing after."

It went without saying that Tom had been recruiting from all four houses for nearly two years now, selecting the best and most important to become part of his circle. Potter was a survivor, a fighter, so she was at the very least, worth looking into.

"Very well."

* * *

 **And so it begins. Obviously Harry's not quite planning on teaming up with Riddle just yet, and Riddle only sees her as a pawn to be used in his game with Dumbledore right now. Not much else to add just yet,**

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


	3. Survival

**The Angels Envied Every Kiss**

 **Chapter 3  
** Survival

x

 _"What did you little gremlins do?!"_

 _Stood beside Ginny, Harry tried valiantly to catch her breath. But it was a fruitless endeavour, leaving her half curled up against the wall in a desperate attempt to remain standing. George and Fred were staring at the front of their shop, eyes wide with both appreciation and horror as they watched the spectacle that the two females had set up. Instead of the large Weasley head that topped the front door lifting it's hat off to reveal a bunny rabbit, it instead presented a similar second head resting beneath the hat. And the second, once it was in full view, the head below exploded in a shower of confetti, leaving the recently revealed head to drop into its place and grow until it had replaced its destroyed copy. And then, it'd start lifting it's hat up to begin the cycle again. Already there were piles of sparkling confetti gathered around the entrance, catching the summer sun and sending light everywhere._

 _"This is brilliant! Why didn't we think to make it explode, Fred?"_

 _"I don't know, but it's masterfully done, right George?" The two Weasley twins grinned wildly as they stared up at the cycle of detonating heads before offering both Harry and Ginny a thumbs up._

 _Two years on from that date, Harry would be the sole witness to watching George Weasley's head explode in a shower of blood and brains as bullets tore through it._

.

When Harry woke up, she woke up screaming. Not that any of her dorm mates noticed, so heavily spelled were her bed curtains.

Clutching at the comforter that was thrown over her legs, the redhead sucked in a deep breath, holding the air within her lungs until it burned. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, beating wildly about and the feel of slick blood, warm droplets coating her arms, was not leaving.

Kicking off the comforter, Harry rolled out of bed, cursing beneath her breath when her head met the corner of the bedside table.

The blow stung, but had thankfully not been enough to break skin. She needed to shower, she needed to have the water run down her limbs until it didn't feel as thick and sticky as the red liquid she imagined there. She needed to get clean.

.

It wouldn't be until two hours later when one of her dorm mates began banging on the bathroom door that Harry would resurface, pruney and completely unsatisfied.

* * *

Walking into Slughorn's class with a satchel tucked under one arm, Tom Riddle scanned the mass of faces, instantly picking out the brilliant red hair that belonged to Potter. In the mess of blond and brunettes, she was like spellfire in the dark. Very, very noticeable. It made it so much easier to find her in the sea of students in the Great Hall, that was for sure.

She'd fallen in with Veridian, an average student with a somewhat outgoing personality; she wasn't the greatest of minds. Hence her absence from potions, the first lesson of the new schooling year.

Ignoring Avery's quizzical glance as he walked past him -understandable, considering the fact Tom would normally partner up with the male during potions when it was forced upon them- Tom slipped seamlessly into the open space besides Potter.

With Lestrange taking up his usual chair, that left no free seats in the room where Tom could have otherwise sat. Potter wouldn't be able to get rid of him even if she tried to deny him his seat. There was nowhere else he could go after all.

The female had her potions book open, scribbling something into the margins of one page or another, the slim muscles in her forearm working in tandem with one another. Her blazer was thrown over the seat back, the crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow as she wrote. Understandable as Slughorn did like to keep his classroom at a comfortable room temperature, but why the girl hadn't just cast a cooling charm on herself, Tom didn't know. He certainly would have, had his arms been in the same state as hers.

On her left there was the ugliest scar he'd ever seen, thick cicatrice running from the start of her wrist all the way up to the inner curve of her elbow. A knife wound, but that was the most Tom could tell at a glance. A spell would have made a much neater job of it.

It wasn't until the girl was done writing and went to close her book that Tom caught sight of the second scar, a series of precisely cut letters that ran across the back of her right hand, forming the sentence 'I must not tell lies'. Self inflicted with some kind of magic; the lines were too clean cut to be anything else. Two light patches of skin, oval shaped, on her right forearm were also noted. A snake bite perhaps? From the size it'd have to have been a reasonably big snake, somewhere between ten and fifteen feet.

"I thought Slytherins didn't like Gryffindors?" Potter's face was average, could be pretty if she threw on some artfully done make-up like the rest of the girls did, but her voice was startling. He would not have put the soft, husky voice that addressed him to her face.

"A common misconception. Tom Riddle." Holding out his hand to Potter, he watched as her eyebrow quirked slightly, nostrils flaring as she mulled some thought or another about in her head.

"Harry Potter." He only had a moment to grasp the concept of her offering up a male's name before her hand was in his.

And there was no magic.

No, nothing like those stupid romance novels the Hufflepuffs read, but literally no magic. Tom had gotten very good at sensing magic since he'd first come to Hogwarts, and the girl gave out nothing and everything at the same time. She was being exceedingly careful to not allow her magic to touch him.

Interesting.

The moment in which Harry shook his hand -because she started that too quickly for him to even attempt to lay a kiss on her knuckles as any Pureblood woman would demand- was short, giving him only just enough time to register the calluses on her fingers to mean she held her wand within her right hand.

"Harry?"

It was a reasonable question. Hariel was a unique name, a wizarding name. Harry was a common name for a common mudblood. Perhaps the girl wasn't from the Potter family at all, but was in fact a mudblood born into the muggle world, just so happening to hold the same name as the pureblood house. Her hair did share the widely acknowledge Potter wildness though, despite it colouring. It was a tough call to make without any background information.

"Yes, Harry." She offered no explanation though, instead just turning to face forwards as Slughorn came bumbling out of his office, red hair whipping around to rest upon tense shoulders. So, clearly not a sociable person, because he was most certainly at his most charming right now. How depressingly dull.

Turning his attention back to the front, Tom found himself only paying half attention to Slughorn, as per usual, while keeping an eye on the young woman sharing his work bench. Hariel 'Harry' Potter was running her thumb up and down the soft feathers that rested low on her quill, green eyes hazy and unfocused. When the potion of the day was announced, Tom dutifully went about collecting the relevant ingredients, following through the steps with an ease of someone who'd done this many a times before. It wasn't until halfway through the lesson that he registered what Potter was doing.

"Why are you crushing the Sopophorous bean?"

"It releases the juices easier."

Watching as Potter went through the movements with a handful of her own corrections, Tom took a careful note of every difference between their recipes, memorizing every key thing she changed. If she didn't want that kind of information stolen, then it was her own fault for proclaiming her methods were better out in the open as she had. And should her potion turn out better than his own with these additions, then he would be incorporating them into his own work in the future.

She was calm as she worked, not sneaking a glance at him from the corners of her eyes as any other female would have done.

All the other Gryffindors would have at least snuck a look at him by now, given their deep rooted suspicion of anything green, silver or snake related.

But Potter just went about completing the potion, occasionally checking the textbook to make sure she was following correctly, or as correctly as she could, given her improvements. Her potions was closer to the precise shade that the textbook described though. He'd review this moment later on and note down all of her additions, make sure he didn't forget them and got a chance to employ them for himself.

.

"Now class, this is a perfect example! I suppose you gave Miss Potter some excellent tips, eh Tom?"

Slughorn was grinning at him, moustache twitching as he looked between Potter's cauldron and his star student. Tom smiled, making sure he kept the bitterness, the disgust from his face.

It really shouldn't have surprised him that Slughorn was instantly assume he had something to do with Potter's potion, given how he had sat beside her. Perhaps the man assumed it was in a show of friendship towards the latest refugee to take shelter within the walls of Hogwarts.

Or, heaven forbid, he believed Tom had become smitten with the new girl in his age group. It was inconceivable, but Slughorn, for some strange reason, seemed to believe Tom was a completely normal boy.

Regardless of the fact he'd asked this very man about Horcruxes not twelve months ago.

"Yes, he was very helpful."

Potter's voice drew his attention back to the present, as she looked Slughorn in the face and lied without hesitation. But why? Why would she not want Slughorn to praise her for her potion skills?

He'd had ample opportunity to study the refugees that'd come in the year before, but each one of them had been broken, so to speak. Incomplete, and none of them had been capable of living.

Continuing the charade of living, of course. Putting on a mask and acting through the day, like they were able to adequately deal with the fact their lives had become nothing more than smoking shambles.

The difference though, was that Potter wasn't broken. She still held her head high, she paid a painful amount of attention to her surroundings. She didn't act like everything was fine within her life like her fellow transfer students.

She continued onwards as if something was wrong, and that she refused to be caught off guard by the source. He had no experience dealing with such a person, and as such, was unsure of what move to make.

It would be best to have another approach her first, to get a feel for how they'd react.

Deflecting Slughorn's attention away from him with a handful of flowery words, Tom turned his gaze on Lestrange. It only took the slightest tilt of his head for the boy to get his message, the skin around mulberry eyes tightening. Potter was, of course, an unknown.

Not only did they not know a lot about her, but her blood was, questionable. There was a chance she was pureblood, from an offset of the Potter branch no one saw fit to mention. Siblings that'd fallen out a generation or more ago.

But chances were higher than she was a half-blood bastard child. Or worse, a mudblood bearing the same name. And yet, she'd been considered for Slytherin. The hat had been about to place her there. So not a mudblood. Halfblood then, like him. It made the most amount of sense, though why she'd gone to Gryffindor in the end, why the hat had sounded so, morbid, he wasn't sure. He would find out though.

.

As Slughorn called an end to the lesson, Tom swept his notes back into his satchel, Lestrange packing up just as quickly in order to make his way over.

Beside him, Potter effortlessly swung her blazer up from the back of her chair to once again adorn her torso. She didn't bother to roll down her shirtsleeves, leaving an odd bunching of the fabric just above her elbows. Had the blazer been of proper fitting, it would have probably been uncomfortable, but given that it was a size too big, perhaps even two sizes too large, Potter didn't appear discomforted at all.

"Miss Potter?" Lestrange was now stood before their bench, satchel in one hand and the other extended before him. "Orlan Lestrange. I do believe I was unable to speak to you yesterday."

Potter's shoulders looked like they'd stiffened beneath her blazer, though it was hard to tell given her delicate frame was swamped in the fabric.

"Harry Potter. And I wasn't in much of a mood for talking yesterday," there was a pause, as if Potter realized it wasn't quite polite to state she wasn't in the mood for talking at all, and instead she managed to continue with, "my apologies."

Lestrange blinked once, a slow movement before a small, curious smile made its way across his face. Well, the boy had always appreciated blunt honesty as much as he liked the political games of Slytherin.

"Quite alright. May I walk you to your next class?"

Potter's lips pursed, hands tightening on her own bag before she seemed to notice the movement and relaxed her grip.

"Of course."

"I shall speak to you later then Tom."

Lestrange offered him a solemn nod before walking with Potter to the door. He'd have an impression of her soon enough then.

* * *

There was something wrong with Potter. It'd been evident the night before, and she hid it well. But that didn't mean she could hide it all of the time.

Soldier's Heart.

It was what wizards had called it for centuries, ever since there were actually wizarding armies, back in the times of the Romans. The paranoia, the stress of being in a fight for one's life so often that it left a fatal impression upon one's personality.

It was the reason calming draughts had been invented after all. But the body built up an immunity to the calming draughts.

Not so much with Soldier's Heart.

Watching Potter move from the edge of his vision, Orlan noted how she always kept him between the crowds and herself, how she always had no one between herself and the wall. Her eyes, and incredibly bright green -she was at the very least a Halfblood, no mudblood could have such vicious colouring, surely- were constantly scanning their surroundings.

Most importantly though, she seemed to always keep an eye on his Lord, who was walking ahead of them with Avery. She recognised him as the most dangerous person in the vicinity, though how she knew, Orlan didn't have the slightest clue.

Maybe it was something she'd picked up whilst fighting in a war, some kind of trick to figuring out who posed the biggest threat. What he did know for certain, was that he had to inform his Lord of this development.

"What's Professor Merrythought like? As a teacher that is?"

Potter's voice pulled him from his thoughts, the husky tones mingling well with the English accent. Her parents had to have been English. She was a refugee from Grindelwald's war in Europe, but she spoke with an English accent. The only place for her to have picked up such a thing was from around her parents had she honestly fled Europe.

"She teaches well. Given that she'd held the possession for fifty years, that's not too much of a surprise. Why, interested in Defence?"

Potter's eyebrows puckered, drawing her lower lip in to suck on it. There was a scar on the pink flesh, like she'd bitten clean through it once. From the quick glimpses he'd gotten before she through on that dreadful blazer though, she held more than her fair share of scars.

"It's my best subject. I guess you could say it's my favourite too… Do you know what we'll be doing today?"

Filing that little titbit of information away, Lestrange cast his thoughts back to the previous year, when he'd inquired with the Seventh Years what they'd done in Defence. If she stuck to her patterns, then-

"Boggarts. Just a warm up exercise I believe, to make sure we remember how to handle them. I assume you went over such a thing during your education?"

Potter nodded, her face blank now, even if her knuckles were white around the handle of her satchel.

Not a fan of Boggarts them. Not that anyone was, but there was a difference between the fears of sheltered Third Year Hufflepuffs and a Seventh year refugee from war. With those scars, Potter probably had her fair share to pick from.

It seemed that his Lord would be gaining some ammunition against the girl sooner rather than later.

It promised to be an interesting lesson after all.

* * *

 **Mmm, this took an irritating amount of time to write up. Hopefully the next chapter will come quicker.**

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


	4. Calm Yourself

**The Angels Envied Every Kiss**

 **Chapter 3  
** Calm Yourself

x

Harry walked into the Defence classroom with a grim frown upon her face. Boggarts. Unsurprising, it was a simple enough way to start off a seventh year class, but that didn't mean she had to like it. The question was, what would her Boggart be? Would it remain a Dementor, or would it have evolved?

Surely it wouldn't be the bodies of her friends, that was no longer a fear. It was reality now, such a thing would not scare her.

Depress her? Certainly. Who wouldn't be saddened to look at the image of their most prominent defeat, to witness their failures laid bare for all to see?

But she didn't fear it.

No, Harry was determined to stop such a thing. Voldemort, she didn't fear him in the slightest. What he represented, maybe.

Then again, Dementors were a representation of fear itself.

Frowning, Harry offered Vivian a shallow nod as she slid gracefully into the room, long black hair pulled up in a simple ponytail while a smile lifted her glass blue eyes up at the corners.

"Morning Harry. Ready for Defence?"

Nodding again, Harry folded her arms across her chest, letting out a low breath as her eyes once again scanned the room. She had little to no information on the people around her.

Slowly, her eyes found Riddle and his crew. It wasn't hard to figure out why Lestrange had walked her to Defence, though she had been surprised that he acted as charming and polite as he had been. On Riddle's orders? Or perhaps he just hadn't fallen into the typical Death Eater mentality yet. It was probably the latter. Far and few between were the amount of school children who'd killed before finishing their education.

No, Lestrange still held that bit of innocence close to his chest. He wasn't like Riddle yet. Wasn't like her yet.

Swallowing down the bile that curled at the back of her throat, Harry pushed down the desire to crawl back to Gryffindor tower and cower beneath her bed sheets. She had a job to do, and hiding from the world wasn't going to get anything done.

"Are you any good at defence? I'm alright, but charms is more my cup of tea."

Watching as Vivian nervously looked between her fellow students, Harry felt her shoulders slowly uncurl from where they'd been bunched up. There was only one real threat in this room, and Riddle wouldn't try anything. Not now, not while there was still veritable reasons to keep his perfect student act going. True these students could cause damage with spells, but she was probably the best dueller in this room.

None of these students, not even Riddle, had been forced to fight for their lives before. They would all hesitate, even Riddle, if not for the same reason. Most of them would hesitate to strike a killing blow because that would mean they were no longer innocent, would have to take a life. Riddle would hesitate to gloat over his first kill via duelling.

She was safe here.

Slowly exhaling, Harry tracked Professor Merrythought as she entered the room, a rattling cabinet floating in behind her. Merrythought was an old woman, had probably taught Dumbledore and Slughorn judging by her age. She had been here fifty years after all. The cabinet itself was a handsome thing, all dark wood with carefully done etchings. Where Merrythought had gotten it and the Boggart from, Harry didn't know. Nor did she particularly care.

Sucking in another deep breath, Harry trailed after the rest of the class as they began to crowd around Merrythought. The three Hufflepuff girls in the class actually jumped when the wardrobe rattled again.

"Right then, welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts, year seven. We'll be starting with a simple warm up exercise this lesson, just to get back into the swing of things after a stress free summer." Merrythought clapped her wrinkled hands together, smiling and looking exceptionally proud of herself.

Her gaze lingered on Harry for a moment, questioningly, and Harry shook her head in response. She did not need to be coddled, she didn't need an out. A Boggart was hardly going to present a problem for her.

"You all remember Boggarts. This time around though, instead of using Riddikulus, I want you to use a spell that would repel the actual fear itself, if you can. Of course, if your Boggart is, say, the dead body of a family member there's nothing more for it than Riddikulus. But if it's, say, an inferi, I want to see some fire spells." Well, that sounded dangerous.

Grimacing, Harry took another controlled step back, nothing that she wasn't the only person that was casually retreating from the cupboard. Perhaps it would have been easier to simply step forwards and go first.

But Professor Merrythought was no idiot. She obviously knew her class well, knew who'd have the 'worse' fears, so to speak. The woman had been the one to interview her about starting her term at Hogwarts.

No doubt she'd recognised that Harry had seen how bloodied and ruthless the world could be, because when their eyes met again, it was obvious the woman planned on saving her for last.

Leaning back against the Eastern wall of the room, Harry watched as each student went forwards, the fears getting progressively worse. One Hufflepuff feared being married off, of all things, and Harry had shaken her head. Oh, to be innocent.

It wasn't until they got midway through the lesson that the fears began to worsen. An Acromantula made several appearances. Unsurprisingly, considering that was the supposed cause of Myrtle's death. Lestrange's Boggart was a werewolf. Doubtful that he'd ever actually met one, but from the slight snickers on the Slytherin side of the room, there was probably a story behind that.

Regardless, he was quick to pin it down with silver chains, the Boggart howling in protest. Riddle was called forwards next, the only student left besides herself. His own dead body was soon sprawled out across the floor, and several Slytherins sucked in a sharp, short breath.

The sight was, admittedly, grotesque. The Boggart hadn't even had the decency to show a clean death, instead the corpse's neck was twisted all the way around, bones broken, blood pooling out beneath its torso. No doubt the softer students would be choking back tears.

Riddle's face was grim as he hit the Boggart with a swift Riddikulus. It wasn't like there was a spell that would otherwise deal with a corpse. Fearing your own death couldn't be combated with spells after all. The corpse transformed into a well polished, twenty-something Tom Riddle, evidentially the latest Minister of Magic.

Incredibly humorous to Riddle no doubt, given the fact he very much planned on becoming a Dark Lord.

The Slytherin stepped back from the Boggart, wand sliding back up his sleeve and calmly making his way over to the groupings of students.

"Hariel Potter." Merrythought's shrewd eyes tracked her movement towards the Boggart, which quivered in place with the new victim now in its sights.

.

A sharp crack, and Harry Potter once again found herself face to face with Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Seeing his own dead body once again had been discomforting. Regardless of how many times his mind informed him the sight before his eyes was a trick, an illusion, it never failed to make his heart leap into his throat. He knew now how the blood would flow from his chest, how a broken bone looked beneath the surface of the skin, all stuff his third year mind had failed to comprehend. All his extra knowledge had done was feed the Boggart with more ways of amplifying his fear.

Twisting on heel, Tom came to rest beside Lestrange, watching as Potter made her way forwards. The Boggart took on a humanoid shape with a crack, Potter taking a startled step back while quiet fell over the class.

Tom was riveted. He'd never seen anything like it.

It was human, possibly male. With blood red eyes, slits for pupils and a snake like nose, it certainly was like no magical being he'd ever seen before. A wizard, but mutilated.

Even Merrythought seemed stumped, so clearly it wasn't something they hadn't covered yet. The white of its skin gleamed despite the dark lightning of the DADA classroom as livid red eyes locked onto Potter.

Potter, who stood tall, eyes narrowed and wand pointing unwaveringly at the thing's chest.

"Come now Harry, are you really so surprised to see me?" It spoke perfect English, even if it's voice rasped around the words, eyes still focused solely on Potter. Potter, who's wand didn't lower, but rather wavered ever so slightly, green eyes wide.

This was Potter's greatest fear? How was he suppose to use it against her if he didn't know what it was? Or perhaps, who it was?

He'd been rather hopeful he'd have been able to get one over on the girl, get a read on her, anything that'd mean she wouldn't be a problem for his future plans. But this was useless.

"We are two sides of the same coin after all. Neither can live while the other survive."

His interest skyrocketed. An adversary? A dead adversary even. Because Potter was certainly still alive.

Her jaw was clenching, and she struck with a Riddikulus as the thing's wand tip began to glow with a familiar green light. Avada Kedavra.

The creature twisted, dropping to the floor until it became the ugliest thing Tom had personally, ever seen. Several girls actually screamed at the stunted form on the floor, which seemed as if it had been stripped of several layers of skin.

It was bone thin, curled in on itself and looked disgustingly pitiful.

And Potter laughed at it. Like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, though the context escaped Tom completely.

Clearly it was only something she understood, the refugee evidently missing the horrified looks that were being sent her way as her laughter took on a bitter tone. She didn't wait around instead glancing to Merrythought and only remaining long enough for the woman to give her a small nod, before she disappeared out of the door.

"What was that about?" Lestrange whispered, eyes on what remained of the broken Boggart. Pursing his lips, Tom eyed Merrythought -who'd clearly decided it the lesson was over- before his eyes travelled to the door Potter had just left through.

"I am unsure. Though I plan to find out."

.

Following after Potter wasn't difficult.

Whatever iron-clad control she'd held over her magic early that morning had been shattered. Were it visible, no doubt the corridor would have been bathed in the colours of her magic, the vast amount there was. It was thick, like honeyed syrup and had the strange textural ability to stick to everything it came into contact with.

Not to say that it was anything resembling sweet.

He'd expected it to feel like all the other students magic, where her Gryffindor friend's was sweet like sugar, where Lestrange's was sharp like dark chocolate, where his own was rich like red wine, Potter's was so far off the spectrum that it left him struck almost breathless.

It was drunk on death.

It coiled in on itself, the same energy that the sickly green shade of Avada Kedavra gave off, the same luring danger.

The students that he passed in the halls were all effected by it, even if they didn't seem to notice the cause. They gathered together, pressing closer, like prey that'd caught the scent of a predator.

The only thing that he could even think to compare it against in an attempt to comprehend it, was Dumbledore's magic, and oh, how he loathed to do that. Dumbledore's magic was like a thick heavy mist, the same sour tinge that he imagined the man's lemon drops holding. He wouldn't know, having never dared to try one.

He did not trust that man.

So what was it, that gave Potter such potent magic?

Magical power grew for a number of reasons; genetics, constant use, the mental capacity of the user, life experience. There were very, very few things that could be used to increase magical power manually.

Tom would know, he'd looked into those kinds of things. The rituals were still quite beyond him, until he'd lived a century at least. And even then, there were certain steps he was hesitant the fulfil. One fact leapt to mind as he strode down the halls, pondering.

Potter was a refugee. There were several books, studies, dedicated to the growth of one's magic, and everyone seemed to agree that a near-death experience increased magical capacity by a significant amount.

And if Potter had been out there actually fighting, instead of rolling over and showing her belly as all those other fools had done, then was it possible that her magical core had been forced to grow and adapt to such circumstances? It was certainly something worth looking into, but in order to do that, he had to get closer to Potter.

Coming to a stop before a large tapestry, Tom frowned ever so slightly as the magic just seemed to, cut off. A secret passage? Probably one the Gryffindors used, it was the only way the girl could have learned about such a thing.

"What do you want?"

He didn't allow the fact he was startled to show visibly, but Tom was well aware that the sharp breath he'd inhaled had probably given him away regardless.

"It's see-through on my side," Potter admitted, pulling the tapestry back ever so slightly, lips drawing into a straight line, pressed tightly together. She was hunched over, but there were no tears making tracks down her cheeks. Her eyes were suspicious, but the skin around them tightly pinched. Not upset, and distressed was too powerful a word. Perhaps disquieted.

"You seemed to be in need of a calming drought," drawing one out from his satchel, Tom held the small vial out to the female, watching Potter's eyes narrow in suspicion. And wasn't she was a little paranoiac, casting several spells upon the vial to make sure it was in no way poisoned.

Raising an eyebrow, Tom watched as the girl didn't even have the decency to blush at her behaviour, instead taking the vial and downing it all in one go. She didn't so much as flinch at the flavour, a clear indication that she'd drunk more than her fair share of the stuff.

Already he could feel his lips curling in disgust at the woman who'd refused all manners of civilized behaviour, but then her bright green eyes turned up to look at him from where she was curled up on the floor.

"It's not that I was scared of him. It's what he represents, total failure, getting stuck in a loop."

He would have to research whomever that was. He needed information, and he needed it soon.

"May I escort you to the Great Hall?" It pained him to play the part of the perfect student, but he was Head Boy, and the little survivor was clearly in need of comfort. Or, so everyone in their class would think.

Shrewd eyes narrowed slightly, before Potter bowed her head, teeth grinding behind her lips, were the twitch in her jaw any indication.

"This doesn't make us friends, Riddle."

As if that was what he was after. He was assessing her threat level, her mentality. She might make a good follower, but that attitude would have to be stamped out. Like he had done with so many before; Malfoy, Black, Lestrange, the list went on.

"Don't take it personally, I don't want any," she continued and Tom found himself smirking ever so slightly. That was something he could agree on. But, for the sake of the act-

"I do believe I will prove you wrong, Miss Potter."

She snorted, hand curling around his forearm with a grip so light she might as well have not bothered.

"I doubt it."

* * *

 **On Lestrange's fear; His uncle got bit, and was thrown from the family/England. Somewhere in Europe now. Orlan fears what it represents, even Pureblood he can become disposable.**

 **Voldemort fear; she isn't scared of Voldemort, so much as the thought of not being able to change anything in the past and going down the same route, to the same ending. She laughs at the end because all of Voldemort's work was for nothing, then she'd bitter because all her work before time travel was worthless too.**

 **Well, I did say the next chapter would be quicker,**

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


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